


The Vows

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Series: What Kills You Is The Landing [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Best Man, Dancing Lessons, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Pining Sherlock, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I, John, take you, Mary.”</p><p>It’s not the words but the look on John’s face as he says them–-as though the words are everything. As though they settle something in his mind. As though he’s taking his beating heart in his hands and offering it to Mary.</p><p>It’s only the rehearsal night but it seems like the end of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dancing Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> [The Sign of Three transcription: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html]

The vows are lying on the table when Sherlock walks in.

He looks from the sheet of paper to John, clearly edgy and disgruntled, bent over his laptop examining napkin designs ( _he’ll pick the Cornish Lace pattern, but only after reviewing them all three more times_ ). They’ve been plotting the smallest details of the wedding with painstaking care, but the printout of the vows on the table of 221B is the first Sherlock has seen of the actual ceremony.

“Are we doing this today, then?”

John looks up, blinking. “What’s that?”

“The ceremony. The vows. Are we…rehearsing? Rewriting? What?”

“Mm. Don’t know. Mary dropped those off before the fittings.” John smiles wearily. “She’s with the girls for the afternoon. We have time for…whatever you like.”

Sherlock settles into the chair opposite John, picks up the sheet. _I, John Watson, take you, Mary Morstan, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health, till death do us part._ “These are very traditional vows.”

“Yes. What, Sherlock?” John’s heard something in his tone.

“You’re not making any changes?”

“No. You would?” Now a small smile teases the edges of John’s _not-looking-at-you_ eyes.

“Of course.”

“Really?” John's gone still, listening.

“Hypothetically. If I were you. Marrying someone as significant as Mary Morstan is to you. As much as you value this ceremony–-Yes. I would find something more–-personal.”

John’s quiet. Then, “I understand, but…this is good enough for me. It says all I mean to say. But if someone–-if Mary wanted to rewrite them and make them…personal, I’d be…pleased.”

Sherlock studies him. Then, standing, “So we’re rehearsing the vows.”

“I suppose. Wait, you mean right now?”

“Come here.” He flips John’s laptop closed. John sighs, resigned, and Sherlock reaches for him as he rises. Grips John’s shoulders, positions him to face an imaginary congregation. Places the sheet in his hands.

John studies it. His lips form the words silently. _To have and to hold from this day forward._ Sherlock moves close, near enough to grasp John’s hands if he reached out, to watch the gentle movement of his lashes as he reads. His eyes move slowly up from the paper and are caught in Sherlock’s gaze. His lips part in a startled breath. “What are you doing?”

“Standing in for Mary. Naturally. You need someone to read to.”

John licks his lips, clears his throat. Steps back, out of Sherlock’s reach. “You know what? We don’t have to practice this.”

“We’ve been practicing the dancing.”

“Yes, and that’s quite enough.” John laughs, but his voice is going rough around the edges. “I’ll run over the vows with Mary, on the rehearsal night, Sherlock.”

“But we will continue your dancing lessons.”

John sits down at the table, opens the laptop again. Brings up the website with the napkin designs.

“John?”

John doesn’t look up, but he says quietly, “Yes, Sherlock. We’ll go on dancing.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

John chooses the Cornish Lace pattern. He sets the laptop aside, turns to Sherlock.

They dance. The song in Sherlock’s mind spins them around, around, as he holds John firmly, feeling the living reality of him. John Watson breathing in his arms. At home, for now, in 221B.

John left the flat when Sherlock was dead. _He isn’t there any more, Sherlock. He’s got on with his life._ John had met Mary then, chose her, and when Sherlock came back she was there, and in a matter of days John will be marrying her.

_For better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health._

Do people really promise these things to each other? What is the point? John must know already if Mary will do these things for him or not. If she loves him, she will. Sherlock knows that’s true, because no one who loves John could leave him alone and in need.

No one could do that to John, except Sherlock. _I left him to grieve me._

But he'd had Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade and Molly. And Harry, such as she is. _I didn’t leave him alone._

He saw in his mind John and Mary in the restaurant, the way they’d laughed together; the collapse of John’s joy as he recognized Sherlock, how the laughter had drained from his face, and his body had shaken with the shock. The naked loneliness in his eyes as he struggled for breath. _You let me grieve. How could you do that?_

 _I wouldn’t have,_ he pleads with the John in his memory, _I would never have done it if I’d known._


	2. Till Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's still too terrified to observe properly but he can feel John's surprise beside him. Sherlock goes on about John’s love and pain and worth and all the ways he's saved Sherlock, everything that makes him so unreasonably beautiful, until suddenly John stands to reach for him, near tears.

“I, John, take you, Mary.”

It’s not the words but the look on John’s face as he says them–-as though the words are everything. As though they settle something in his mind. As though he’s taking his beating heart in his hands and offering it to Mary.

It’s only the rehearsal night but it seems like the end of everything.

John has never looked at him with that utter certainty. But he’d said, “I want the two people I love and care about most.” That meant Sherlock and Mary; and Sherlock cannot quantify or rationally express what those words had done to him, hadn't thought John could wreck him and rebuild him once again; but he had, over and over, from the first quietly spoken "Extraordinary, quite extraordinary," to the realization that John had killed a man so he could live, to the second John cried, "Run, Sherlock," with his arms wrapped around Moriarty's neck, to the trusting, "You could," that had nearly undone him on the roof, to the night weeks ago when John had whispered, trembling, "You are the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. Of course I forgive you."

After all of that, John had somehow retained the capacity to astonish him.

After he'd hurt John so deeply, John had called him his best friend.

John had said he _loved_ him. Most in all the world.

John had wanted him there, wanted Sherlock with him as he said his vows–-

To love and to cherish her. To be with Mary in sickness and in health. Why does John want Sherlock standing _right there_ while they promise each other everything and he has nothing to say, no vows to make them, nothing to do but watch them tell each other, _Till death do us part?_

The world fades away and Sherlock pleads, “What does he need from me?”

Mycroft turns stiffly to study him. In the mind palace version of the Diogenes Club, Sherlock waits and he knows Mycroft knows he is begging and his brother looks embarrassed for him.

“How should I know?” he says, softly. “I’m not–-involved.” Hot shame crawls over Sherlock. Around him the room shifts, transforms. Mrs. Hudson opens her door in the mind palace and smiles at him, drying her hands on her apron.

“What does he need from me?” he asks again. Her smile grows; she shakes her head.

“Oh, Sherlock. You know what he needs!” she scolds him. She waves him toward the stairs. He strides up them, nearly in tears.

At the top Molly and Lestrade stand in the shadows, by the door of the flat. They stare at him. He keeps his face blank as he tells them, “You were there. You looked after him when I–-left him. When I was dead. I never said–-thank you.” They nod. He feels the kindness in them. “Please, can you tell me what he needs? Why am I here?”

Lestrade looks at Molly. “I think you should ask him yourself,” she says.

Sherlock opens the door.

He’s there, in his chair, looking into the burning fireplace. The darkened room resolves into the clarity of John, the edges of him lit by flame. He _shines._

He doesn’t turn.

A minute or an hour later, Sherlock finds his voice. “John. You asked me to stand up with you at your wedding. I have no promises to make you. What is it you need from me?”

John still doesn’t move but his voice, patiently furious, answers, “Sherlock. I just need you.”

“You have me!” Sherlock can’t move toward him, can’t look away. “You know this!”

“I thought I did. But you left me, Sherlock. You went away.”

“I should never have done it.”

“You did do it, though.”

“John, I am sorry!” he cries and his anger wakes him into motion. He’s at John’s side in a few steps. “I’m sorry, John. I will never-– _never_ –-do it again.”

John’s still not facing him. “Promise me.”

“What?”

“I need to hear you say it. Promise me, Sherlock.”

“I promise.”

“Look at me!” John says and he turns, finally, and lifts those firelit eyes to Sherlock. “Look me in the face and tell me you wouldn’t leave me for anything.”

The fear and the fury drain out of him as he meets that look. “John, I swear it. I will never leave you alone.”

* * * * * * * *

 _Till death do us part._ The words echo in Sherlock’s mind as he dances silently in the stillness of the flat, with empty arms, through the growing dawn of John’s wedding day. As he endures Mrs. Hudson, as she leaves and he turns to John’s empty chair and remembers a hundred other mornings with tea and the paper and John’s laughter and the unquestioned sense of home.

He puts on his suit; goes out into the ridiculous summer sunshine to face the day and the crowds and John. The sound of John’s voice, his words weighting the air with their enormity. “I, John Watson, take you, Mary Morstan, to have and to hold from this day forward.”

At dinner, Sherlock attempts his speech. For a horrifying minute fear empties his mind of thought entirely, but John’s soft exclamation of "Telegrams!" restores it. He reads the telegrams, then, "Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society," he announces sonorously, and lectures them all on the pointlessness of sentiment. He goes on saying the most absurd, the most unfeeling things and John sits there looking pained and resigned and unbearably, endlessly kind.

Sherlock takes a breath. _Let's get this right, just this time, Sherlock, for John._ "The point I'm trying to make is that I'm an arsehole. I never expected to be anyone's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

He's still too terrified to observe properly but he can feel John's surprise beside him. Sherlock goes on about John’s love and suffering and worth and all the ways he's saved Sherlock, everything that makes him so unreasonably beautiful, until suddenly John stands to reach for him, near tears-–pulls him close with a tender, “Come here,” resting one warm hand on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock breathes through the strangeness of speaking his heart aloud, of being held in front of everyone. Breathes through the words he’s said already and the ones that remain. _Just let me get through this,_ he pleads silently, till John lets him go.

He talks about their cases, even, for once, the unsolved one. _People want to know you're human._ Then the epiphany crackles through his mind. He understands. The case is unsolved because it's unfinished. Someone's going to try to finish it today. The murderer is there in the crowd and Sherlock has no idea who it is and of course, of course there would be murder at John's wedding, except no one will be dying today, because if John has taught him anything it's save the life, don't just solve the case. "John Watson," Sherlock breathes, "you keep me right." John meets his eyes. "Vatican Cameos!" he cries and runs and John is right behind him.

Once more, then, together.

John helps save the man. Sherlock finds the would-be murderer. He leaves the miscreant in Lestrade's custody and steps into the crowded ballroom. Picks up his violin and with his truest playing he sends John and Mary dancing across the floor, through the night, toward the rest of their lives.

The room shouts and applauds. He lets his bow fall, searching for John's gaze. Catches and holds it. _Promise me,_ says John's voice in his mind. Sherlock begins carefully, finding the words.

“Today we saw two people make vows. I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again.” John’s looking straight at him. “So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there. Always. For all three of you.”

He stammers, realizing what he's said.

_She's pregnant. I didn't know I noticed but I did. She's showing all the signs._

The music begins. People are dancing.

Mary’s pregnant. John is a father.

John will always have him. John knows that now.

John has a family. “The three of them” doesn’t mean Sherlock and the Watsons, anymore, but the Watsons and–-a child.

"I think you should take a pregnancy test," he tells Mary. John doubles over, astounded, as Sherlock tries to explain, tries to reassure him. “You’ve had plenty of practice. You’ll hardly need _me_ now that you’ve got a real baby on the way,” he quips, to make John laugh. Then Sherlock hears what he’s just said and he feels his smile crumbling away.

John’s radiant with surprise, reaching without thought to pull Sherlock close. Sherlock lets him. Can’t look away. Can’t hide the ruin on his face.

“Dance,” he orders Mary and John, hurriedly. They protest, but they go, leaving Sherlock alone on the crowded floor.

The dancing lessons are over. The keeping of the vow begins.


End file.
